If it be possible for you to displace it
with your little finger, there is some hope the
ladies of Rome, especially his mother, may
prevail with him. But I say there is no hope
in't; our throats are sentenced and stay upon
execution.

Sic.

Is 't possible that so short a time can
alter the condition of a man?

Men.

There is differency between a grub
and a butterfly; yet your butterfly was a grub.
This Marcius is grown from man to dragon:
he has wings; he is more than a creeping thing.

Sic.

He loved his mother dearly.

Men.

So did he me: and he no more remembers
his mother now than an eight-year-old
horse. The tartness of his face sours ripe
grapes: when he walks, he moves like an engine,
and the ground shrinks before his treading:
he is able to pierce a corslet with his
eye; talks like a knell, and his hum is a battery.
He sits in his state, as a thing made for
Alexander. What he bids be done is finished
with his bidding. He wants nothing of a god
but eternity and a heaven to throne in.

Sic.

Yes, mercy, if you report him truly.

Men.

I paint him in the character. Mark
what mercy his mother shall bring from him:
there is no more mercy in him than there is
milk in a male tiger; that shall our poor city
find: and all this is long of you.

Sic.

The gods be good unto us!

Men.

No, in such a case the gods will not
be good unto us. When we banished him, we
respected not them; and, he returning to break
our necks, they respect not us.
Enter a Messenger.

Mess.Sir, if you 'ld save your life, fly to your house:
The plebeians have got your fellow-tribune
And hale him up and down, all swearing, if
The Roman ladies bring not comfort home,
They'll give him death by inches.
Enter a second Messenger.Sic.What's the news?
Sec. Mess.Good news, good news; the ladies have prevail'd,
The Volscians are dislodged, and Marcius gone:
A merrier day did never yet greet Rome,
No, not the expulsion of the Tarquins.
Sic.Friend,
Art thou certain this is true? is it most certain?
Sec. Mess.As certain as I know the sun is fire:
Where have you lurk'd, that you make doubt of it?
Ne'er through an arch so hurried the blown tide,
As the recomforted through the gates. Why, hark you!
Trumpets; hautboys; drums beat; all together.The trumpets, sackbuts, psalteries and fifes,
Tabors and cymbals and the shouting Romans,
Make the sun dance. Hark you!
A shout within.Men.This is good news:
I will go meet the ladies. This Volumnia
Is worth of consuls, senators, patricians,
A city full; of tribunes, such as you,
A sea and land full. You have pray'd well to-day:
This morning for ten thousand of your throats
I'ld not have given a doit. Hark, how they joy!
Music still, with shouts. Sic.First, the gods bless you for your tidings; next,
Accept my thankfulness.
Sec. Mess.Sir, we have all
Great cause to give great thanks.
Sic.They are near the city?
Sec. Mess.Almost at point to enter.
Sic.We will meet them,
And help the joy.
Exeunt.